


repose

by corollary



Category: Final Fantasy XII
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-14
Updated: 2009-12-14
Packaged: 2017-10-04 10:32:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,105
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28989
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/corollary/pseuds/corollary
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She is no different than that which she had despised. Post-game, full spoilers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	repose

In Dalmasca, they burned their dead. The wealthiest of the houses could afford a pyre and gallons of oil; those who were considerably less endowed had to make due with whatever ill-tended crematorium would take them. There were several reasons for it: no withering body could survive long under Dalmasca's unrelenting sun, it would be months before the aroma of death and decay would cease hovering above the sand that held its dead, and the wolves that lived at the city's very edge would have been inflappable and driven mad in their hunger for flesh. The Kiltias offered an explanation that fell much smoother to the ears of the devout: "How can your soul make it to the boatman if your body is holding it captive?"

In Nabradia, they lay their dead on display for two nights and three days, so that were the soul to get lost on its way back to the earth that had given it life, it had a body to anchor to. Those were the customs Ashe had insisted on for her beloved Rasler's rites, even going as far as to clothe herself in Nabradia's mourning cast of black, eschewing Dalmasca's much more practical mourning garb of white.

In Archadia, they locked their dead in gilded boxes of steel and covered them up with dirt and grass. Those who did not have a body to bury were still given the thick, granite markers, to show where they might have been buried had they had something to bury. It was said that if the life an Archadian led had pleased the gods, flowers would bloom over their grave.

House Solidor, not unlike the other seven prominent houses in Archades, had kept its own mausoleum for generations. This included wives and children, but not consorts or lovers, Larsa had explained to her on her first official visit as a Dalmascan dignitary. "If a member of House Solidor's Elite Guard was considered exemplary in his or her duty, he or she may be elevated to member status," he had said, before pressing his lips together in an uncharacteristic show of sorrow, and Ashe knew he was thinking of the lady Judge, the one Penelo had told her about. With a flicker of his eyelids, the moment passed, and he was a composed Emperor once more. "After a hundred year grace period, if there is a case of overcrowding, some of the bodies will be moved."

He had taken her arm, a courtly gesture that offered equal status, her fingers resting on his forearm as he escorted her through the palace grounds. He had also grown half a foot in the past two years, his voice crackling as a prelude to the further changes just beyond the corner. She did not envy him, having to endure the rockiness of juvenescence while all matters and all eyes of Archades rested solely upon him.

"There is an entirely seperate mausoleum for those who bear the title of Emperor or Empress," he continued, his voice filling the spacious corridor. "Though it may unsettle you, I've taken the liberty of having Vayne laid to rest with his forebears. He would want to have been buried with our father, I think."

Ashe was silent for a long time, before: "The father he killed?"

"I do not claim to understand his actions," Larsa answered, his voice heavy with old ghosts. "I will afford him the same honours he allowed his brothers; a place in the Solidor mause, even though they were convicted of treason."

"The brothers he had slain," Ashe noted, her voice soft and thoughtful.

Larsa nodded, "Yes." The word fell between them, simplistic and without apology.

"The history of House Solidor is writ with bloodshed," she said, her eyes tracing a line over the sweep of his hair. "How can you live with such a legacy?"

To his credit, Larsa didn't flinch, didn't even blink. "I could ask the same of you."

Ashe exhaled softly, expelling her agitation on a breath. She had never been at ease in Archadia, not even aided with Basch's protective arm and Balthier's quick eye. She was vaguely aware of her small contingent of guards a few steps behind them, and Gabranth's hand picked cabal behind them, but it did little to loosen the knot in her stomach.

The breeze was gentle against her face when they stopped. "This is what I wanted you to see," he said, looking older and more tired than he had any right to. "The Emperor's Mause."

It cut a solid figure against the deep sky, jagged stone and stained glass coming together, as elegant as any palace she had seen. The garden around it was lush and well tended – she could see a woman kneeling in the dirt, crooning to the flowers.

Ashe pressed her fingers against the stone wall, finding it warm beneath her touch. She thought of Vayne in that moment, how she had made him the pinnacle of her anger and betrayal, how he had turned her into a ghost without ever laying a hand on her, how he had watched her father breath his last. It was easy to hate him, a blood wrenching tide that could last her until she lay on her own death bed. Unexpectedly, she also thought of Rasler, how the Occuria had twisted his image and had him smile his smile at her, urging her ownward toward destruction. A beckoning hand, whispered words only she could hear: avenge me.

"He told me that when he slept, he could see the faces of everyone he had killed." Larsa's voice belled clear above her thoughts.

She thought of her sword, the one Vossler had given her, how well it had fit in her hand, how it had split skin like gauze, how the blood of men had run like a river for her.

"I understand," she said, letting her hand drop. She did not think of the faces that existed behind her closed eyelids; they would have their due come nightfall, come every nightfall.

Five years ago, she had knelt at Rasler's side, her shoulders pinched with a year's worth of war and sadness. The future had loomed in front of her, dark and unsteady, dirt and blood and the smell of death, at impossible odds with her prince's white armor and peaceful smile, and she had whispered her promises, her voice as full of reverance as it had been on her wedding date. She would not let the Boatman have her. Her blood-smeared soul would find his, in the Heaven she didn't belong with, and hope it was enough.


End file.
